


so please just fall in love with me

by tothewillofthepeople



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 13:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: Bahorel holds out the rhinestone-encrusted Secret Santa top hat with terrible solemnity. When Courfeyrac, trying not to grin, pulls out a flimsy piece of paper and unfolds it, he finds the nameCombeferrewritten in careful script.





	so please just fall in love with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evol_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evol_love/gifts).



> this is a present for my darling friend [rachel](http://www.mlbevan.tumblr.com), because i am very bad at giving gifts but i do know how to write. i hope you like it <3 <3 <3
> 
> title from my unironic favorite christmas song, michael bublé’s [“cold december night”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtB0LqyJsdA)

“It’s Secret Santa time, motherfuckers,” Bahorel says.

Everyone blinks at him. He’s standing in the middle of his living room, where he had invited them all over to watch Christmas movies and drink egg nog and rum. Courfeyrac feels like he should have known that Bahorel has ulterior motives. He usually does.

“I really like cashmere sweaters,” Courfeyrac announces, before anyone else can react. “Just, you know. As a totally unrelated fact.”

“I’m a big fan of oil paints,” Grantaire adds, raising one hand. “For those of you who are curious.”

“There’s a twenty-dollar price limit,” Bahorel says loudly. Courfeyrac sighs.

“Don’t buy me a sweater, then,” he tells the room at large. “Cashmere worth twenty dollars is not cashmere worth having.” Feuilly is laughing into his mug of egg nog. Enjolras is trying valiantly not to roll his eyes.

Bahorel holds out the rhinestone-encrusted Secret Santa top hat with terrible solemnity. When Courfeyrac, trying not to grin, pulls out a flimsy piece of paper and unfolds it, he finds the name _Combeferre_ written in careful script. He blinks and very pointedly doesn’t look over at the owner of that moniker. What is he supposed to get for Combeferre? What on earth could Combeferre want?

“I drew my own name,” Bossuet complains a moment later.

“Buy yourself a spa day,” Courfeyrac says automatically, but Bahorel has already taken Bossuet’s slip of paper and offered him the hat again. 

When Pontmercy draws a name he immediately looks at Courfeyrac with wide eyes. Courfeyrac smiles to himself; it takes the fun out of guessing, to know that Pontmercy is his Secret Santa, but at least now he knows who to drop hints around.

“Keep your name secret,” Bahorel is saying loudly. “Get your present to your person by the 20th. We’ll have the big reveals at the party on the 21st, which Combeferre and Enjolras have graciously decided to host. Say thank you, everyone.”

“Thank you, everyone,” Courfeyrac parrots immediately, perfectly in time with Bossuet. They high-five. Combeferre shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Enjolras absentmindedly tangles his fingers with Grantaire’s. Grantaire smiles down at their hands and then continues his campaign to balance his empty cup on Bossuet’s bent knee.

“Present-wrapping party at our apartment on the 19th!” Joly adds. “Don’t bring your Secret Santa gifts, obviously, but I have about twenty rolls of wrapping paper and I’ll be making mulled wine.”

“Why do you have so much wrapping paper?” Feuilly asks. He’s folding and unfolding his slip of paper in his hands.

Joly nods, like he was expecting the question. “Simply put,” he says seriously, “I have an arrangement with the owner of the craft store.”

Everyone blinks at him. Bossuet just grins.

The gathering dissolves shortly after that, since not everyone is properly done with exams yet. Courfeyrac and Pontmercy walk home through the snow together, back to the apartment that they share. They’ve been roommates since freshman year, an arrangement that has always worked so easily that neither of them have ever felt the need to change it. Courfeyrac has snow in his hair (he carries a personal vendetta against hats; they flatten his hair) but Pontmercy looks cozy in the knitted wool beanie that he bought when the weather turned chilly.

“I hope the snow stays,” he says.

Courfeyrac nods. He could say something about how slushy it will get, how depressing it is when it turns gray at the roadside, how cold his feet are… But he doesn’t want to. December is his favorite month and it has been since he was a kid. He likes the fresh newness of the snow, he likes the holidays, he likes getting presents for his friends.

Almost every door they pass bears a wreath. He can see candles in a few windows, and a few menorahs with the appropriate number of candles lit. Pontmercy will probably light the next candle on his own menorah when they get home—Courfeyrac has a small box of chocolates to give him, knowing that Pontmercy’s family used to celebrate the holiday by exchanging little presents on each of the eight nights.

“I’ll need to go present shopping tomorrow,” he says. “The reveals are only in a few days.”

“You’ll think of something good, I’m sure,” Pontmercy says. “You’re great at presents.”

Courfeyrac smiles. He kicks up snow as they continue on their way home.

*

He spends most of the next day scouring the local bookstores for something that Combeferre both _wants_ and _doesn’t already have._ Combeferre has no self-control when it comes to books. His bedroom is like a small library already. Getting another tome to add to his collection is almost too predictable, but a book is one thing that Courfeyrac knows Combeferre will never turn away, so he keeps looking.

He texts Enjolras halfway through the day: _if i tell you who i’m buying a present for will you do some recon work for me??_

Enjolras texts back barely a minute later: _so you drew combeferre_

Courfeyrac: _look at that, you’ve got beauty AND brains_

Enjolras: _goodbye_

Courfeyrac: _baby don’t leave me like this! i need your help!_

It’s a long minute before Enjolras finally responds: _don’t call me baby. what do you need?_

Courfeyrac grins and raises up his phone to take a photo of the book before him. Along with the photo he sends: _does he have a copy of this?_

*

There’s a fresh snowstorm on the night of the wrapping party at Joly and Bossuet’s but Courfeyrac is a man of the elements, so he still elects to wear his favorite caramel coat. By the time he arrives, he’s nearly a block of ice. He knocks on the door and considers the melodramatic merits of freezing to death right there on the stoop, but before he can make up his mind the door opens and Joly ushers him inside.

Joly and Bossuet have an actual fireplace in their apartment so that’s where Courfeyrac goes first, half-tempted to climb inside it and curl up on top of the coals so he can stop shivering. He sits as close to it as he can and accept a mug of warm mulled wine.

“You need a better winter coat,” Joly says severely.

Courfeyrac grins at him. “You’re just jealous at how good it makes me look,” he says.

“If your aesthetic is hypothermia, sure.”

“Only I can make freezing to death this fashionable,” Courfeyrac agrees. Joly rolls his eyes and goes back to the kitchen to answer whoever has begun knocking on the door.

The living room is strewn with the promised rolls of wrapping paper and carefully-spaced arrangements of scissors, tape, and ribbons in every color imaginable. The apartment itself is also done up like a winter wonderland, with fairy lights over the window and a meticulously decorated tree in the corner. There’s even a paper chain of red, white and green over the door to the bathroom. Courfeyrac whistles, impressed.

A spring of mistletoe is arranged over the entrance to the kitchen. Courfeyrac only notices it when Bossuet collides with Prouvaire in the doorway and insists on pressing a kiss to his friend’s cheek. Prouvaire laughs. “Where did you even find this?” he asks, reaching up to brush the dark green leaves.

“Farmer’s market,” Joly says. “I was there buying cloves.”

Prouvaire is still looking up. “Mistletoe killed the god of light,” he says thoughtfully. He stays in the doorway for so long that he has to kiss Grantaire, too, when the artist arrives with snow in his hair. Most of them are there that night, but not Pontmercy, who had one final paper to finish up, and not Bahorel, who had work.

Courfeyrac finds himself underneath the mistletoe three times within half an hour of arriving; the first time, with Feuilly, who gives him a fond kiss on each cheek; the second time, with Enjolras, whom Courfeyrac kisses on the mouth just to make him laugh; and, finally, with Combeferre.

Courfeyrac has forgotten about the mistletoe by that point. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, sipping his second mug of wine and laughing at the wrapping paper swordfight that is brewing, when a hand alights on his shoulder. It’s Combeferre. “Sorry I’m late, Joly,” he says.

Joly waves the apology off. Bossuet, however, looks over with a grin and says, “Kiss Courfeyrac and get over here, you’re on my team.”

“What?” Combeferre asks, confused. Courfeyrac turns and catches his frown.

“Mistletoe,” Grantaire explains, pointing.

_No._

Courfeyrac blinks up at Combeferre, confused. He doesn’t want a mistletoe kiss from Combeferre, and he doesn’t know why. He didn’t shy away from Feuilly, or from Enjolras. But the thought of kissing Combeferre, here in front of everyone, makes him feel unsteady. 

Combeferre must see the indecision on his face because he steps forward and presses a gentle kiss to Courfeyrac’s forehead. “Merry Christmas,” he says quietly, and then moves into the living room to be armed with a roll of red wrapping paper. Courfeyrac is left in the doorway, clutching his mug of wine and feeling dizzy.

Hardly anyone seems to have noticed. Grantaire, though, is frowning as though he’s just figured something out. He tips his head toward Courfeyrac and raises his eyebrows.

Courfeyrac looks away and takes a sip of his wine. He’s better than this. Pining over one of his best friends on Christmas? No thanks. Cliché, predictable, and too much like a Hallmark movie to even be entertained as a thought. He avoids the mistletoe doorway for the rest of the night, electing to stay in front of the fire until almost everyone else has gone home with their presents, all wrapped with varying degrees of care.

Grantaire comes through the kitchen doorway just as Enjolras and Combeferre are leaving. They all stop, grinning and uncertain, but before anyone can tease or needle them Grantaire kisses the back of Enjolras’s hand and keeps moving through. Enjolras is smiling as he and Combeferre continue through the kitchen and out the door. Grantaire sits beside Courfeyrac, right in front of the fire. 

Everyone else has departed. Joly and Bossuet are in the kitchen, cleaning up. “If you’re here to talk about _feelings_ I’ll throw my mug at you,” Courfeyrac says pleasantly.

“Me? Never,” Grantaire scoffs. 

“Because I’ll die before I let anyone tell me that I’m obvious.”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Most of the time I would say no.” Courfeyrac takes a sip of wine. Grantaire nods sagely.

“This isn’t ‘most of the time,’ then,” he guesses.

Courfeyrac nudges a nearby present with his toe. “A combination of nostalgia and a lack of desire to be alone during the holidays, I’m sure,” he says easily. “I’m smarter than that. I’ve got my guard up.” Grantaire starts to laugh. Courfeyrac elbows him. “What?”

“Of everyone in our friend group,” Grantaire says, “I never expected you to be fulfilling the role of the Grinch. Or the Scrooge.”

“Are you kidding me?” Courfeyrac demands. “I love Christmas. I sleep in a giant stocking for the entire month of December. I drink exclusively hot chocolate. I would probably fuck a Christmas tree, if I didn’t think it would hurt.”

“Oh, god, don’t even say that,” Grantaire says, looking disgusted. “Pine needles everywhere.”

“I’m just saying. I am not a _Scrooge.”_

“You’ve made your point.” Grantaire claps him on the shoulder and stands up. “Come on, Joly says we should drink the rest of the mulled wine tonight.”

“Yes, please.”

They go into the kitchen (pausing briefly in the doorway so Grantaire can kiss Courfeyrac on the cheek) and join Joly at the stove, where he’s peering into the depths of the leftover wine. Joly is wearing slippers that look like elf shoes, curled up at the toes.

“I don’t know how well this keeps,” he’s saying. “In my medical opinion, we should drink the rest of it now.”

“That’s your opinion as a doctor?” Bossuet checks.

Joly nods solemnly. “That is my opinion as a doctor,” he agrees. “Also, I want to see what the oranges taste like after soaking in wine for that long.”

“Make sure you take out the cloves first,” Grantaire says, holding out his mug so Bossuet can ladle wine into it. “That’s my medical opinion. As a non-doctor.”

“Sometimes it is amateurs who make the most important contributions to the field,” Joly says seriously. He fishes out an orange and begins carefully removing the cloves. “I’ll heed your advice, non-doctor R.”

“Call me Rx.”

“Or Rex. Like T-Rex.” Bossuet hands Courfeyrac his mug, freshly filled. “Everything is better when it’s about dinosaurs.”

“Bossuet, my friend, you’re a veritable fount of wisdom,” Courfeyrac says, and takes a generous sip.

They drink the dregs of the mulled wine. It is very, very warm. 

“See, Joly, I don’t need a different coat,” Courfeyrac proclaims as he’s leaving. “I have your generous libations to keep me warm.”

“You’re good to get home?” Bossuet checks. Grantaire was sleepy enough that he’s decided to stay on the couch, but Courfeyrac sleeps better in his own bed, and his apartment isn’t far.

“I’ll be fine,” Courfeyrac agrees. “I’ll text when I get there.” He gives Bossuet a hug, and then Joly, and tosses one fond look through the kitchen doorway at where Grantaire is already lounging on the couch. “Goodnight! Sleep well!”

Moments later he is down on the street, blinking in the light snowfall. It’s dark and quiet and beautiful in the way that late December often is, in a way that seems too storybook to be real. Courfeyrac smiles with childish glee at the glow of the streetlights and catches a few snowflakes on his tongue before he sets out seriously for home.

He’s full of affection for his friends. He loves this season—when people go out of their way to spend as much time as they can being close and warm and indulgent with each other.

Courfeyrac pulls out his phone and texts the group chat: _what’s the closest i can get to fucking the abstract concept of christmas???_

Bahorel is the first to respond: _probably sleeping with michael buble tbh_

Pontmercy: _NO!!!_

Grantaire, apparently still awake: _thought you were going to fuck a christmas tree?_

Feuilly: _ugh why. you’d get pine needles everywhere_

Grantaire, again: _that’s exactly what i said_

Bahorel: _or take the joly route. exchange sexual favors for wrapping paper_

Joly: _don’t blaspheme. what the craft closet and i have is special_

Bossuet: _“special” is one word for it_

Grinning, Courfeyrac types, _omg boss what do you know?? spill the tea!!!_

Enjolras: _what the hell are you talking about_

Courfeyrac laughs down at his phone the whole walk home. He tells himself he isn’t disappointed that Combeferre never enters the conversation. Courfeyrac spent most of his freshman year with a hopeless crush on Combeferre, and he _refuses_ to let that crush spark up again now.

*

On the morning of the 20th, Courfeyrac wakes up early and remembers that he needs to deliver his present today without being seen. He lies in bed for a while, deliberating, before he decides that the easiest thing to do will be to give the present to Enjolras and have him make the delivery.

Just as he flings out one arm to find his phone and text Enjolras, there’s a knock on his door. “Come in,” Courfeyrac says. After a moment, Pontmercy pushes the door open. He’s holding a box wrapped in dark green paper.

Courfeyrac sits up, grinning. “A present? For _me?”_

“Your Secret Santa asked me to give this to you,” Pontmercy says with a smile. He walks into the room and sits on the end of Courfeyrac’s bed.

Courfeyrac almost laughs. It’s a nice touch on Pontmercy’s part, to make it seem like the present is from someone else. He doesn’t dispel the illusion, though, just holds out his hands. “Gimme,” he says.

Some people like to carefully undo wrapping paper and save it for later. Courfeyrac isn’t like that. He takes great joy in ripping right into the immaculately-folded paper (someone else must have helped Pontmercy wrap it; Courfeyrac has seen how ragged his presents usually look). Inside is a plain white box. Courfeyrac shoots Pontmercy a look and lifts the lid.

Inside, nested within a few sheets of tissue paper, is a white scarf. It looks as soft as a dream; Courfeyrac is almost hesitant to touch it, afraid that it will dissolve like a cloud.

There’s a folded sheet of paper tucked alongside it. When Courfeyrac pulls it out, he finds a typed note that reads: _i heard cashmere was off the table, but i hope wool will do instead. merry christmas._

Courfeyrac buries his face in the scarf. It’s so obscenely soft that he knows he’ll wear it all winter, and the white will go perfectly with his favorite caramel-colored coat. Plus, it will keep him warm, so Joly can stop tutting about hypothermia. This is the perfect gift.

“I love it,” he says, draping it around his neck even though it must look ridiculous paired with his pajamas. “It’s so soft.”

“It looks like it,” Pontmercy agrees. Oh, he is good. Pretending like he’s never even seen the present before? A nice touch. Courfeyrac grins at him.

“I need to go deliver my own present,” Pontmercy adds. “And then I won’t be around tonight, I’m going to my Grandfather’s for the last night of Chanukah.”

“I remember,” Courfeyrac says. He’s pleased at how thorough Pontmercy is being about keeping the secret, even though he had been so obvious at the very start. “I slid a present in your shoe, but don’t open it until tonight.” It’s a tie, in a shade of blue that Pontmercy favors.

Pontmercy smiles and gives him a hug before he departs, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Courfeyrac texts Enjolras: _hey baby can i trust you to deliver my secret santa gift to ferre_

Enjolras texts back a few minutes later: _call me baby again and you’ll be pulling pine needles from very unpleasant places. but sure. want to get coffee? you can give me the present then._

Courfeyrac dashes off an agreement and throws in a few kisses for good measure before finally getting out of bed.

He and Enjolras agree to meet not far from his apartment, at a new coffee place, recently opened, that they’ve both been wanting to try. Courfeyrac gets there first and wastes a few minutes standing out of the way, fooling around on his phone. Holiday twitter is his favorite twitter. Most of the people he follows are home for the week and the jokes and stories are a wonder to behold.

“Is _that_ the present?”

Courfeyrac looks up and smiles at Enjolras’s disgruntled expression. “No, I’m just happy to see you.”

Enjolras scowls and reaches his arms out for the package tucked under Courfeyrac’s arm. It’s big, and heavier than it looks. “Christ, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, holding it up to get a better look at the dimensions. “This is a ludicrous size for a book.”

It takes a heroic effort for Courfeyrac not to make a joke. “Try and get a picture when Combeferre opens it,” he says instead. “I want to see his face.” He steers them both into line so they can order. “Have you gotten your present yet?”

“No, but it’s still early.” Enjolras reaches up to touch Courfeyrac’s lovely scarf. “This is from your Santa, I’m assuming.”

Courfeyrac beams and nods. They both order—Courfeyrac gets hot chocolate, remembering his conversation with Grantaire from the night before. Enjolras gets coffee, black, and they find a table.

“Overpriced,” Enjolras mutters as they sit down. He takes a sip, then tips his head to one side. “Good, though.”

Courfeyrac looks around. They do this often; ranking coffee shops or bookstores for comfort level, pricing, the pretentiousness of the clientele. This place is skewing more hipster than Courfeyrac is usually willing to indulge, but his hot chocolate is very good, so he’s willing to keep the peace. “Nice décor,” he allows.

“Too dark,” Enjolras says at once. “This space has such nice windows but they only light up the very front. Everything back here is in shadow.”

“Have you never had a clandestine coffee shop meeting?” Courfeyrac presses his ankle against Enjolras’s under the table. “No one can know we’re meeting here, darling.”

Enjolras kicks him. Courfeyrac laughs.

“Do you know who got you the scarf?” Enjolras asks. 

“Pontmercy. He isn’t subtle. Do you know who has you?”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Can I ask who you have?” Courfeyrac presses.

“It’s supposed to be _Secret_ Santa,” Enjolras says mildly.

“Come on, you already know who mine is. And they’re getting revealed tomorrow night anyway.”

Enjolras nods and takes another sip of coffee. “I drew Grantaire’s name,” he admits. “Which was odd. Christmas marks just about a month since we started dating… I wanted to do something for that, I wasn’t sure if I should just do one present and count it for everything or if I should do an us present in addition to a Secret Santa one.”

“Get him three presents,” Courfeyrac says. “One for the gift exchange, one for your anniversary, and one for Christmas.”

Enjolras shakes his head, smiling. “I think I have it figured out,” he says.

“How’s that going, by the way?” Courfeyrac asks. He’s nosy, he knows that about himself, but he also knows how to bow out of situations that don’t need extra scrutiny. Enjolras and Grantaire have been settling into a relationship carefully with each other; Courfeyrac hasn’t wanted to pry.

Enjolras smiles down at his cup. “Well. I think it’s going well.”

Courfeyrac nods. He knows that’s as much as he’s likely to get from Enjolras anyway; the blond is famously reticent about personal matters.

“What about you?” Enjolras asks. “Anyone making passionate love to you underneath the mistletoe that I need to know about?”

“Other than you?” Courfeyrac teases. He makes a pointed effort to not think about Combeferre. “No. I’m blissfully single this holiday season. Nobody is jingling these bells.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Please,” he says, “please, for the love of god, never say that to me again.”

Courfeyrac just laughs at him.

*

It’s snowing again on the 21st when Courfeyrac makes his way over to Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment for the party. He just about skips the whole way, in high spirits and excited to see his friends. As a result, he’s one of the first ones to arrive, and Combeferre is still trying to string Christmas lights over the window when Enjolras lets Courfeyrac inside.

“You haven’t decorated yet? Blasphemy,” Courfeyrac says, unwinding his soft white scarf from around his neck.

“My final paper was due at midnight last night,” Enjolras says flatly. “I haven’t exactly had the time.”

“And you still came out to get coffee with me? I’m touched.”

“That was more about the caffeine than it was about you.” He pauses. “Courfeyrac, _what_ are you wearing?”

Courfeyrac has taken off his shoes to reveal his favorite Christmas socks—red and green striped, with bells on the ankle that jingle when he walks. He shakes one foot enthusiastically and almost falls over laughing at the affronted look on Enjolras’s face.

“Courfeyrac, can you help me?” Combeferre calls. Courfeyrac goes, chiming with every footstep.

Joly and Bossuet are right on his heels, arriving with pie and champagne and a good dose of cheer. Then Bahorel bursts through the door, shaking snow out of his short beard, with Prouvaire behind him bearing a cookie sheet covered with tinfoil. Courfeyrac doesn’t see when Feuilly arrives, but he is there, suddenly, drinking red wine and wearing a truly atrocious sweater.

The lights are up by the time Pontmercy makes it, fresh from his Grandfather’s with a whole plate of latkes. Grantaire arrives last, wearing a Santa hat and bringing sugar cookies that are welcomed with open arms by everyone in the room. “Never fear, Santaire is here,” Grantaire says. Courfeyrac laughs so hard he almost spills the drink that Bahorel had pressed into his hands a few moments before.

“We can get started, then” Combeferre says, once everyone is gathered in the living room with a cookie or latke in hand. “Bahorel, would you like to do the honors? You organized this thing.”

Bahorel stands up. “Merry Christmas,” he says. “Pontmercy, Feuilly, Happy Chanukah, and Happy Almost-Kwanza to myself. Happy Holidays, in short. Did I miss anyone?”

“This is the future liberals want,” Courfeyrac mutters. Enjolras kicks him; the bells on Courfeyrac’s socks jingle.

“Just for that, Enjolras, you get to start,” Bahorel decides. “Show us what you got!”

Enjolras smiles good-naturedly and stands to show off his present. Courfeyrac sits back and watches contentedly. His wine glass is already empty but he doesn’t want to get up and fill it; this space it too warm and generous for him to feel unsatisfied. He really loves his friends. He’s grateful that the holiday gives him an opportunity to show it.

The chain of reveals snags slightly when Enjolras, Feuilly, and Grantaire discover that they all bought presents for each other. Everyone laugh and cheers and then Bahorel says _fuck the order_ and has Prouvaire get up next to show off what he got.

“I received a pair of poetry books that I’ve been wanting,” Prouvaire says, holding them up over his hushed friends. “I think my Secret Santa was…Pontmercy?”

To Courfeyrac’s surprise, Pontmercy nods, and Prouvaire goes over to give him a hug. Everyone makes appreciative noises, and Feuilly asks to see the books. They’re very fine editions, from what Courfeyrac can see. Both hardcover, with bookmark ribbons stitched into the binding. No doubt Pontmercy went over the twenty-dollar budget, but then, it appears most people did.

Courfeyrac looks around the room. Who got him his scarf, then, if not Pontmercy? He was so sure. Feuilly and Enjolras have already been outed as Santas, and they would have been his second guesses. Pontmercy must have been looking at someone else when he drew the name—had Courfeyrac been sitting next to Prouvaire? He can’t remember.

“Courf, it’s your turn,” Grantaire is saying.

Courfeyrac stands up. “I got a scarf,” he says, holding it up. “It’s the softest thing in the world. And I thought Pontmercy had given it to me, but I can see I was wrong.” He gives the group a quizzical look.

“It was me.” 

Courfeyrac turns. 

Combeferre, standing by the window, toasts him with his champagne glass. “I’m glad you like it,” he says with a soft smile. “Took me ages to find one that seemed right.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says, touched. He steps over Grantaire’s legs and goes to give Combeferre a hug.

“Combeferre, you’re next,” Bahorel orders, as Courfeyrac pulls away from Combeferre’s warm embrace. It’s awkward, standing _right there_ while Combeferre talks about a present _from Courfeyrac,_ but stepping back would be too obvious, so Courfeyrac stays.

“I was given an atlas of fantasy maps,” Combeferre says. “It’s rather substantial, so I didn’t lug it through the snow here tonight, but I have pictures for those interested.”

“Oh, that’s perfect for you,” someone says appreciatively. Courfeyrac steals Combeferre’s champagne flute and takes a sip. 

Everyone is still looking at them. “Who gave it to you?” Bahorel encourages.

“Well, at first I thought it was Grantaire,” Combeferre asks, looking curiously at where the other man is still seated on the floor.

“Not I, said the cat,” Grantaire replies. He’s still running his hands over the frankly beautiful sketchbook that Enjolras bought him.

Combeferre frowns and scans the room again. “Am I supposed to keep guessing, then?”

“Guess once more,” Bahorel decides. “After that your Santa should speak up.”

“Was it you, then, Bahorel?” Combeferre asks, starting to smile again. The smile tips sideways into confusion when Bahorel shakes his head.

Courfeyrac clears his throat and lifts the pilfered champagne glass. “Merry Christmas,” he says, as Combeferre turns to him in surprise. Several of their friends start to laugh and Combeferre grins and steps forward to hug Courfeyrac again.

“I love it,” he says in Courfeyrac’s ear. “It’s beautiful.” Then he presses a kiss to Courfeyrac’s cheek. It makes him grin. It also makes him accept that he’s well and truly fucked, at least when it comes to Combeferre. There’s no denying the fact that Courfeyrac seriously likes him, not when his face feels so hot from a simple kiss.

Courfeyrac can’t stop smiling through the rest of the gift exchange. He stays next to Combeferre, drinking his champagne and basking in the holiday cheer. When everyone has shown their presents and the Santas have been revealed, Grantaire opens a new bottle of champagne and Prouvaire pulls out gingerbread that he had stashed away. Someone calls for music. The evening dissolves into a bright holiday blur.

Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment is full of laughter and bursts of singing and it makes Courfeyrac so happy that he wants to throw out his arms and dance. He doesn’t, but he does pull Joly into some sort of waltzing shuffle when one of his favorite Christmas songs comes over the radio.

They eat cookies, they compare gifts, they talk about who’s going home and when they’ll be back. Through it all, Courfeyrac keeps catching Combeferre’s eye. Every time he does, he smiles. Every time, Combeferre smiles back.

They end up alone together in the kitchen when Courfeyrac decides to refill the champagne glass. He’s standing by the counter, waiting for the bubbles to settle, when he hears a faint sound of laughter from behind him. Combeferre has entered the kitchen with an empty cookie plate, clearly planning on putting it in the sink.

“Topping up your stolen drink?” he asks.

Courfeyrac gives him a carefully blank look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Combeferre laughs again. He lays the plate in the sink and then leans one hip against the counter and crosses his arms. He has on a dark blue Christmas sweater, patterned with snowflakes. It looks good.

“Blue is a nice color on you,” Courfeyrac says, looking back at his champagne glass.

Combeferre sounds surprised. “Thank you.” A moment. “I like your socks.”

Courfeyrac smiles. He wiggles his feet a little bit so the bells chime.

“Courfeyrac.” He turns to face Combeferre. “Thank you. For the atlas—it’s incredible.”

“I’m very good at giving presents,” Courfeyrac says easily. Then he smiles, softer. “Thank you for the scarf.”

They watch each other for a moment. Combeferre looks away, pushes his glasses up his nose. “You leave tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says. He’s going home for the holidays, like he always does, because he comes from a big and enthusiastic family who would probably disown him if he tried to stay away. “What about you?” He’s realizing, here in the neat kitchen, that he doesn’t have any idea what Combeferre’s plans are.

“Going home to my mother’s,” Combeferre says. “But not until the day after tomorrow, I couldn’t get a ticket.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac says.

He hates this. Conversation with Combeferre is usually so easy and fun. But even through this slightly stilted conversation, Courfeyrac looks at Combeferre and wants him in a way that aches.

Combeferre reaches out and takes the champagne flute. He takes one slow sip.

“You didn’t kiss me properly under the mistletoe,” Courfeyrac says suddenly. Oh, _hell._

He usually isn’t shy about this sort of thing. Loving people is like breathing; something he doesn’t need to think about. Something that keeps him alive. With Combeferre, though? With Combeferre, it has always been different.

Under every facet of Courfeyrac’s easy carefree attitude is the fear that Combeferre doesn’t want him back. Cool, unflappable Combeferre. Even as a freshman he had seemed like a professor: knowledgeable, kind, and with far too many books checked out from the library at all times. The surprising thing isn’t that Courfeyrac fell in love with him. It’s that Courfeyrac never said anything about it.

Until now.

Combeferre blinks at him. “I wasn’t under the impression that you wanted me to,” he says carefully. He sets the champagne flute down on the counter.

“Everyone was staring,” Courfeyrac says.

“I’ve never known you to be shy.”

“About most things, I’m not.” Courfeyrac suddenly can’t look Combeferre in the eyes. “But if you were going to kiss me… Hypothetically, I mean. I wouldn’t want it to happen like that.” He clears his throat. 

“I see.” Combeferre shifts closer. “How would you want it to happen, then? Hypothetically.”

“Ideally, after we rob a bank and successfully take off with millions of dollars in cold hard cash,” Courfeyrac says.

Combeferre laughs softly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Courfeyrac nods. He keeps nodding until Combeferre catches his chin in one hand and kisses him softly on the mouth.

_Oh._

Combeferre leans back. His fingers are light on the line of Courfeyrac’s jaw.

“Merry Christmas to me,” Courfeyrac says. Then he throws his arms around Combeferre’s neck and pulls him back in.

It’s the perfect conclusion to the evening. Courfeyrac feels like singing again, loud and joyous, but that would mean moving away from Combeferre and he isn’t willing to do that yet. He hums, happy, and Combeferre has to stop kissing him because he starts laughing.

“Go out with me,” Combeferre says. “When you come back from your holiday.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Courfeyrac asks, delighted.

Combeferre shrugs. “My New Year’s resolution was to finally ask you out,” he admits quietly.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, “I’ve never known you to procrastinate.” He laughs at his own joke; he can’t help it. Combeferre grins and kisses him on the forehead, and then the cheek, and then Courfeyrac catches his mouth again.

The rest of the world disappears and doesn’t come back until Grantaire steps into the kitchen, intent on filling up his wineglass, and just about shouts with surprise and joy when he sees them.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr i am [kvothes](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/x). happy holidays!


End file.
